


Stronger

by Corijan



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Ficlet, Undertale Genocide Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6966913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corijan/pseuds/Corijan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was nearly over when Frisk woke up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stronger

Sans didn't have lungs in the common sense, but he still needed to catch his breath. Air whistled through the gaps in his teeth and his rib cage expanded and collapsed with each breath. “all right,” he said, trying not to show how tired he was. “time for my special attack. are you ready? here goes nothing.”

Even under their baggy sweater, Sans could see every muscle in the child tense. Their knuckles were white around the knife's hilt. They stared at Sans with wide eyes. When nothing happened, their eyes flicked around the Judgment Hall. As nothing continued to happen, they looked back at Sans and squinted at him in confusion.

“yep. that's right,” Sans said, lazy smile plastered on his face (not that he had much choice in the matter). “it's literally nothing. and it's not going to be anything, either.” He laughed. The sound was low and wheezy in his chest. “ya get it? i know i can't beat you. one of your turns... you're just gonna kill me. so, uh, i've decided... it's not gonna BE your turn. ever. i'm just gonna keep having MY turn until you give up. even if it means we have to stand here until the end of time, capiche?”

The child looked bewildered for a moment. Then they scowled, upper lip curling, and glared at Sans. If looks could kill... well, Sans had to be glad they couldn't. Frankly, it was more emotion than he was used to seeing on the child's face and it chilled him to the bone. Heh. However, he remained as he was, the picture of uncaring laziness. The child couldn't know that they phased him.

Sans shrugged. “you'll get bored here. if you haven’t gotten bored already, i mean. and then, you'll finally quit.” A cold stone of dread was lodged where Sans' stomach would have been; a part of him wasn't sure the child would get bored. He prayed they would.

As he watched, the child became less visibly angered and more calculating. They had met all of his tricks with familiarity before, but he could tell that they'd never seen this one. They were squinting ever so slightly and Sans could tell they were already searching for a loophole. He could practically hear the gears whirring in their head.

Sans didn't know if changing the child's mind was possible, but he had to try. “i know your type. you're, uh, very determined, aren't you? you'll never give up, even if there's, uh... absolutely NO benefit to persevering whatsoever. if i can make that clear. no matter what, you'll just keep going. not out of any desire for good or evil... but just because you think you can. and because you “can”... ...you “have to”. 

His words were going in one ear and out the other. All expression had left the child's face now and they blankly stared at him. He would have thought that they were a statue if it wasn't for the way their shoulders were rising and falling rapidly with each breath. They were tired too. Sans only hoped that he could persuade them that there was no end for them here.

“but now, you've reached the end. there is nothing left for you now. so, uh, in my personal opinion... the most “determined” thing you can do here? is to, uh, completely give up. and...” Sans stifled a yawn. “do literally anything else.” 

He leaned against a pillar and slid to the floor, eyes never leaving the child. They remained where they were, never moving, never speaking, never changing, just standing and watching, thankfully trapped within the borders of the square. Sans wondered if they were perhaps trying to out-wait _him_. He almost chuckled at the idea. Sans was an expert in doing nothing. He could keep it up indefinitely. And the Judgment Hall wasn't such a bad place to be stuck forever in. It was warm... and quiet... and comfortable...

 

***

 

Frisk felt like they had been asleep for a very long time. They felt weightless, but at the same time felt like they had been beaten up very badly and were covered in bruises. They became gradually aware of coming back to themselves. It was a strange sensation, rather like an out-of-body experience, but the opposite. Slowly the black fog in their mind began to clear and they could see through their eyes again. The world was blurry, nothing but colors, but gradually they focused and shapes became more definite.

They were standing in a battle square in the Judgment Hall. Sheets of orange light spilled through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes in the air. Sans was in front of them, slouched against a pillar, fast asleep. He smiled as he always did, but there was a tightness to it that Frisk didn't recognize. He looked no different than he always had, but he seemed different, and Frisk couldn't place it.

Memories, not Frisk's, but memories none the less, came flitting into view in their mind like sparrows coming to roost on a wire. Frisk saw themselves wandering through empty homes and empty streets. Frisk watched as they searched for and found weapons. Frisk felt the thrill of glee as they found their knife. Frisk watched as they took piece after piece of the snowman. Frisk felt the grit of dust under their nails in the creases of their palms. Frisk watched as they hunted for, then found terrified monster after terrified monster. Frisk watched as they lifted their knife and stabbed and killed and killed and killed and killed. No! They couldn't have! Frisk panicked. But they did! Faces, dust, flashed before their eyes. Metaton, Undyne, Papyrus, Toriel! Faces and dust. Faces and dust. Faces and dust. With a wail, Frisk felt themselves get jolted back into place.

Surprise and anger filled Frisk, but these were not their emotions. An inky cloud reached for their soul and squeezed.

_No! I won't let you!_ Frisk screamed, but it was no use. The ink clenched tighter and consumed them. It covered their ears and blocked their eyes. They opened their mouth to scream, but it poured in and choked them with the taste of hot iron. Frisk wanted to beg, but they couldn't. They wanted to cry, but the ink had filled their lungs and they couldn't get a breath to even start. Pressure filled their skull, both inside and out, and it squeezed until stars were bursting in Frisk's mind. The only freedom was to sleep, to close their eyes and forget in all, to forget their choices, to forget their goals, to simply drift away and end it all.

There was a moment, the first time Frisk had fallen into the ruins, before they left for the rest of the Underground. Toriel had agreed to let them go. Frisk had seen tears in her eyes, but she had brushed them away and knelt next to Frisk, wrapping them in a hug. Frisk remembered that hug, had remembered that hug through their entire journey. Toriel had hugged them so hard that they thought they would break. Toriel had hugged them like she would never see them again. From that moment, Frisk had promised themselves to come back. They would see Toriel again.

_They had to see Toriel again._

Frisk woke again. The ink didn't matter anymore. The dust didn't matter anymore. They had to get home. With a burst of energy and warmth and a feeling that Frisk could only describe as cinnamon-butterscotch pie, Frisk took over. This was _their_ body, this was _their_ story, and _they_ would be the one who made the decisions.

With a battle cry, Frisk raised their arm over their head, pulled back, and threw! The knife spun through their air, blade over hilt, blade over hilt, light glinting off the blade, splintering light through out the Hall. The knife twisted, point down to the tiles, and hit the floor. With a loud crack, the blade snapped off, and the hilt clattered to the floor.

Sans awoke with a start.

The child still stood in front of him, but it was not the same child. The were hunched slightly, breathing heavily. There was a fire in their eyes that he had never seen in such a small child. They stared past him, and he followed their gaze over his right shoulder.

In a pool of orange light, glittering coldly, the child's knife lay in two pieces.

Sans twisted his head back to the child so quickly he felt a vertebrae in his neck pop.

The child tore their gaze from the broken knife to look at him. They did not stare threateningly, but their was a passion in their gaze that frightened Sans nonetheless. As he watched, the child began to tremble violently. It started in their hands, moved into their shoulders, and soon they were shaking like a leaf. As he watched, the color left their skin, and they turned white as bone.

“...kid?” Sans couldn't piece together what had happened, and he usually could. They had thrown the knife, but _why_? And if it had been at him, their aim was spectacularly off.

As he watched, the child suddenly doubled over, clutching their stomach. They covered their mouth with a hand and coughed violently. It took several moments for the hacking to stop, but when it did, the child straightened, keeping their arm wrapped around their middle. When they removed their hand, Sans saw a thick black liquid caught in their fingers.

“...kid?” he asked again, unable to bring himself to ask if the child was okay, but curious nonetheless.

“I'm...sorry.” The child's voice scratched like a wooden door against cobblestone. The bent over again, coughing into their hand. When they straightened, a trickle of black liquid seeped from the corner of their mouth. “I...will...fix...” The child's voice was cut off in an angry squawk. Rage flashed red in their eyes and they coiled, then launched themselves towards Sans throat. He flinched. They smacked into the invisible barrier and crumpled to the ground. Sans heard something break. They lay sideways, back towards Sans, curled in on themselves. Soft whimpers echoed emanated from the child.

Sans had no idea what to do. Mere minutes before he had been prepared to kill this child brutally, but now he was seriously considering helping them.

Before he could make up his mind, the child forced themselves into a sitting position. They turned to face him, and tried to smile, but it did little to comfort either of them. An angry red patch stood out on their cheek, and Sans knew that it would leave one heck of a bruise.

“I'm sorry.” The words came out in a hurried tumble. “I'm sorry. I'll fix everything.”

“sorry?” Sans asked. “kid, what are you-”

He was cut off as the child made another terrible choking noise. They lifted a hand to their bruised cheek and seemed to dig their fingers in. The child forcefully slammed their hand against the tiled floor and Sans saw blood now staining their cheek.

“Sorry,” they whispered. The child's eyes flashed, and then the world twisted, shuddered, and stopped.

 

***

 

Sans followed the child from the door to the ruins. They walked at a casual pace, the oversized sweater they wore apparently enough to keep them warm in the snow. They hopped over a branch and kept going, happiness almost radiating from them. Sans approached them when the reached the bridge. They slowed when they heard the crunch of his slippers on the snow. 

“h a v e n ' t y o u e v e r h e a r d o f s h a k i n g s o m e o n e ' s h a n d ?”

The child turned, and, smiling brilliantly, reached for his hand. When the whoopee cushion went off, they giggled.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction in ages, so this is just a little something, to 'dip my toes back in,' so to speak.


End file.
